


Hot Chocolate (and Goddamn Marshmallows)

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, F/M, Fluff, Marshmallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21833956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: How many Christmases has he spent, now, telling Sam not to worry? It’s a Winchester family tradition.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Hot Chocolate (and Goddamn Marshmallows)

“I fuckin’ can’t, man, I barely made it here to begin with, Baby was slippin’ all over the place,” Dean grumbles. He holds the phone awkwardly between his shoulder and his ear so that he can pour another glass of whiskey. He only has half a bottle; if he can’t get out tomorrow, he’s fucked.

Even aside from the alcohol situation, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. He’s supposed to be at Jody’s, drinking eggnog and doing all the Hallmark bullshit with his family, but if the snow doesn’t stop early… well,  _ fuck _ that, he’ll find a way. He’s gotta make it back for Christmas. 

“The cabin’s still stocked from the last time we were there, right?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah, I won’t starve to death, at least,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light. It’s the truth, although the cabinets basically contain black beans, a couple packs of ramen, and some skunked beer. Dean won’t starve, but this is just not how he wanted to spend his night. This Christmas was supposed to be different. 

“Still not gonna tell me what was so important up there?” Sam says. 

“Nope.” 

It’s his own fault, really. Sam told him about the Christmas plan a month ago. It had taken Dean a while to figure out where Mom’s stuff had been stored without Sammy realizing what he was up to, and then their last hunt took longer than they’d expected… it was just one thing after another, and he’d been in such a rush to get up here he hadn’t checked the weather forecast. Typical. 

“Fuck,” Sam sighs. “It’s supposed to let up tomorrow, we’ll mount a rescue mission, okay? Donna’s got four wheel drive, I think.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says gruffly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound cheerful. How many Christmases has he spent, now, telling Sam not to worry? It’s a Winchester family tradition. “I’ll figure something out. Give everybody hugs for me. Tell Jody she better save me some of that pork roast.” 

“Love you,” Sam says quietly. 

Dean kinda likes the big goddamn marshmallow who’s replaced his brother lately. Amazing what Eileen and a general lack of apocalypses have done for the kid’s temperament. 

“Love ya, Sammy. See you tomorrow, one way or another. Hey, don’t do it without me, okay?” 

Sam laughs at him. “Obviously. Bye, Dean.” 

Dean hangs up and looks down at the little box on the table. As much as this situation fuckin’ blows, Sam’s reaction is gonna be priceless. 

He opens the box again, peeking for the zillionth time before he slips it into his pocket. It’s still surreal to think about that ring on someone else’s hand. Mom stopped wearing it at some point after she came back, and Sam probably assumes it’s long gone. 

He’d said something about how Eileen’s practical, they talked about it, she doesn’t want him to go out and blow a bunch of money on jewelry, they can pick out the actual bands together when it’s time… but Dean’s pretty fuckin’ excited to see the expression on his face. And hers, of course. Practical as she may be, Eileen’s a goddamn marshmallow too. 

Dean’s happy for Sam, he really is. Sometimes he just feels a little lonely, watching the two of them; must be nice, having someone look at you like that. They just kinda  _ fit _ . They finish each other’s fuckin’ sentences, sometimes, or sign the same things at the same time, in unison, and Sam just  _ smiles _ so much more than he used to. Dean looks at the way they are together and thinks it looks comfortable, like a warm fuzzy fuckin’ blanket, and he’s only just starting to realize that sometimes… sometimes he gets really cold, is all. Sometimes he could use a little more warm fuzzy in his life. 

Like, hey,  _ now _ , for example. He shivers and drains the last of his glass, pours himself a fresh one, and then he shakes off the melancholy and goes to get a fire started. 

There’s no cable, or anything, but they hooked up an old DVD player to an even older TV a couple years back. Dean finds a stack of dusty DVD cases and shuffles through them, rolling his eyes at the selection. Love Actually? How the fuck did that end up here? 

Or… huh. Now he thinks about it, there’s a chance he might have bought it at the dollar store, one time, while feeling mildly tipsy and severely sentimental. He also has a vague recollection of he and Sam both getting a little bit teared up while watching it. Just a little. 

Dean looks down at his drink and sighs. It’s gonna be a maudlin drunk kinda night. Might as well just put on a chick flick, while he’s at it. He tops up his glass, puts in the disc, throws another log on the fire, and settles onto the massive, squashy couch. 

Fuck his fuckin’ luck, seriously. There’s just this cold, dull ache in his chest that won’t seem to go away, and even though he keeps trying to tell himself that it might end up okay, the snow might stop in time, he can’t seem to shake it. Baby’s not at her best in the snow, what are the odds? He can’t ask Sam to drive however many fuckin’ hours to come pick him up, he won’t ask, and he just wishes a single damn thing would go right, for a change. 

He knuckles at his eyes and pours another drink, but no matter how much whiskey he puts away, he can’t seem to warm up. 

***

About an hour in, as he’s eyeing the whiskey bottle and deciding whether he should just go ahead and polish the thing off, there’s a knock on the door. 

“The fuck,” Dean mutters. He’s stumbling awkwardly to his feet, reaching for the gun he’d put on the coffee table, when the door slams open, letting in a gust of freezing-cold air and a flurry of snowflakes. There’s a figure in the doorway: massive coat, bundled up, and they’re carrying two big paper bags, and Dean blinks stupidly for a second, gun still cocked. 

Is that -

“Holy shit,” he blurts out. He sets the gun down and rushes to help her, but she’s already kicking the door closed behind her, setting the groceries down, and by the time he gets over there she’s unwinding the scarf from around her face so that he can see her eyes, sparkling and happy, her flushed cheeks, her bright smile. 

“Good to see you, Dean,” she says, still breathless from the cold. He wraps her in a bear hug, stunned and speechless. 

“Holy shit,” he says again, eventually, as she pulls away to get her gigantic puffy coat off. There are snowflakes caught in her hair and she’s beaming at him, and she laughs at his look of disbelief; she’s got the cutest fuckin’ laugh,  _ Christ _ . 

“Little birdy told me you might need some company,” she says. She’s giving him this impish smile and he wants to say something clever, but all he can do is wipe a hand down his face and shake his head. 

“Shit, how’d you even get up here? Roads were  _ bad _ when I got in.” 

“Maybe for your little Baby,” she grins, shrugging off the big coat and stomping snow off her boots. “But it wasn’t a big deal for the truck. The plows will be out tonight, we can hit the road as soon as the sun’s up. I’d say let’s go now but I hate driving in the dark when it’s snowing. it’s like making the jump to hyperspace, y’know?” 

Dean blinks slowly at her. “Wait, seriously?” 

“You know, when the snow comes at the windshield and it looks- ”

“No, I mean, we’ll be able to get out? You’re really… you don’t have to drive me all that way, shit.” 

“I mean, unless you’re set on sticking around? Got big plans?” She glances pointedly over his shoulder to where Love Actually is still playing, and Dean makes a face, but he’s so relieved he’s getting a little bit choked up. 

“Options were limited.” 

“Hey, you’re in luck. I came prepared.” She grabs her big puffy coat and rummages in pockets until she pulls out a DVD case. Dean’s mouth drops open. 

“Die Hard? You’ve gotta be kidding me. You’re my  _ favorite _ .” 

She rolls her eyes and shrugs it off, but she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet a little, like she’s pleased with herself. “Here, help me with these?”

She picks up the grocery bag and brings it to the kitchen, and Dean trails after her with the second, which (judging by the clinking when he sets it on the counter) is mostly booze. She pulls out a pie, first, one of the supermarket ones in its plastic box. His stomach does a happy little flip-flop, and he has to hug her again. He wraps his arms around her from behind and squeezes hard. Her hair smells the same as he remembers. 

“Did you turn into a marshmallow when I wasn’t around?” she teases, and Dean blushes. 

“Guess it runs in the family,” he says quietly, laughing, and he steps away. 

“Huh? 

“Never mind. I might’ve had a couple drinks. Gettin’ sappy.” He leans against the counter next to her as she starts to unpack more food. “Last I saw you, you were in New York. Are you back in this neck of the woods? You shoulda called!” 

“Just came back recently. I guess Jody heard through the grapevine, she’s the one who called me. My dad died,” she says matter-of-factly. “Been staying at his place trying to get everything sorted out.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” 

She shoots him a little sideways half-smile and pulls out a carton of eggnog, a bottle of Jack, and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. “Thanks. I don’t mind being back, mostly, but I’m glad she called. The holidays have kinda been a bummer this year.” 

“I know how that goes,” Dean says wryly. 

“Yeah. Nice to have something to do. When Jody found out I was gonna be alone she about had a cow, so I guess I’m having Christmas with you guys now. Anyway, I can never say no to rescuing a damsel in distress.” 

She winks, and Dean’s so goddamn charmed right now it takes a second to realize she just called him a damsel. 

“Hey,” he protests. He tries to look affronted, but she’s giggling, so it’s probably not working. 

“Should we start with the ‘nog? Or peppermint hot chocolate?” she muses. 

“Dealer’s choice.” 

“Hot chocolate it is. Boil some water?” 

Dean grabs the old kettle while she peers at mugs, trying to find a couple that aren’t too dusty. He sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye; she’s pretty, Christ, and she’s all pink-cheeked from the cold, biting her lip absentmindedly, and… yeah. Dean maybe can’t stop staring. 

She catches him looking, but she just smiles back, shy and sweet, and starts pouring hot cocoa mix into two passably clean mugs. 

“You never told me what you’re doing up here,” she remarks. “Secret Christmas mission, Jody said?” 

Dean fumbles for the ring box and shows her. “Had to get something out of storage.” 

Her eyes go wide and shocked, and her mouth opens and closes silently for a second. 

“Oh,” she says, voice strained, looking down at her hands. “I didn’t realize you were…” 

“No, not for me!” he says hastily. “God, no. Not for me. For Sam.” 

“Oh!” she says, high-pitched. She laughs and fidgets nervously with the sleeve of her sweater. “Oh, okay.” 

Dean doesn’t think he’s imagining the look of relief on her face, and something in his chest goes all fluttery. 

“I am  _ very _ single,” he says, and he can’t quite manage to keep his tone casual. “Just… to make it clear.” 

She nods, trying to hold back a smile, like she’s laughing at him but also maybe (hopefully) like she’s charmed at the same time. 

“Good,” she says softly. 

***

Dean doesn’t remember falling asleep. When he wakes up, sometime in the middle of the night, it takes him a moment to remember where he is. 

He feels sorta dazed, like maybe he’s still tipsy. That’s normal enough. What’s not normal is the person next to him; they’re curled around each other, fully clothed, and she’s tucked under his arm with her hand resting on his chest. They must’ve dozed off during the movie. Dean smiles to himself. 

The fire’s mostly embers at this point, and he should get up, put a log on, before it dies completely. Maybe he should just go to his room, too; find her a blanket and then give her some space. That’d be the gentlemanly thing to do. 

He takes a second to breathe, first. There’s something so perfect about the moment. He wants to memorize the way she feels, curled against his side, the way they fit together, the way her hair smells, the way her breath tickles his neck when she exhales. He feels boneless and heavy-limbed, like he could melt into the couch cushions, but there’s this tightness in his chest, the knowledge that he should enjoy this while he can, because it won’t last. It never does. 

He’s careful when he gets up, trying to slip away without disturbing her, and he’s quiet as he stokes the fire. When it’s blazing again, he grabs a big quilt from the back of a chair and covers her up, tucking her in gently. He turns to head to bed. 

“Hey, wait,” she murmurs sleepily. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Where’re you going?” she asks. When he looks back, the fire is illuminating the adorable grumpy pout on her face, and she’s all sleepy-eyed and pillow-creased and fucking _ gorgeous _ . 

Dean shrugs. 

“Come back?” she asks. 

He slides under the quilt, and she snuggles close. When she tilts her face up to look him in the eye, her skin glows orange-gold in the firelight. She leans in slow, pausing just before their lips meet, and when they kiss Dean feels it through his entire body, liquid heat curling out to his toes. Her mouth is soft, and she makes this sweet, happy sound when he sucks on her lower lip; it makes his head spin, and he cups her cheek in one hand, feels her velvety skin under his fingers. 

Her lashes flutter when she pulls back, her eyes still half-closed. 

“Go to sleep, Dean,” she whispers. “We’ve got a long drive in the morning.” 

She fits herself against his side, nuzzling into his neck, sighing contentedly, and he strokes her hair until her breathing evens out again. 

He likes the way she fits in his arms, and he likes the sweet smell of her hair all mixed in with the woodsmoke. He likes the weight of her on his chest and the heat of her body against his, the way she’s wrapped around him, the way she’s half draped over him like a living blanket. 

_ Warm and fuzzy _ , he thinks, and he’s smiling as he falls asleep. 


End file.
